Treasure Hunting in Tidal Pools
Although we were so close to our intended destination, I wasn’t in very good shape to deal with anything stressful. My reflexes were likely to respond with the same speed as a cat that had been laying outstretched in a sun puddle for the past couple of hours. I hadn’t slept much the night we boarded the ferry leaving New Sydney. My daughter Sarah, had walked the decks, unable to sit still while trying to cope with motion sickness. I settled down into a chair in one of the darkened rooms, only to be awakened by someone snoring louder than a fog horn. How can anyone feel so at home in a room filled with strangers?
I picked up my stuff and wandered around until I found a quiet spot next to a food and beverage bar. I slumped back in the chair for a few minutes, my legs extended out in front of me, trying to relax and whispering answers to Sarah whenever she walked by and asked me a question.
I finally closed my eyes for about twenty minutes before the dogs started barking. Yep, that’s right. Dogs on a boat. Young and old, big and small, judging by the tones and patterns of their varied woofing fits.
When we saw Newfoundland for the first time, it was 6:30 in the morning. We drove down the ramp, leaving the ship and docks behind to pass by a solitary cemetery situated on a hillside, dotted with white crosses and bleached headstones. I thought it looked just like those graveyards I’ve seen in movies filmed in countries where the land only knew how to grow rocks.
The sun played hide and seek along the horizon as a shape-changing mist settled down around the base of the nearest mountain range. In that isolated twilight, we looked out at the wilderness in black and white, the outline of the landscape formed out of the contrast of light and dark.
“I feel like I’ve come home.” Sarah uttered the words as they formed in my own mind.
We saw our first moose warning sign on the outskirts of Port-aux-Basques, reminding us of the message that blared throughout the ship on the loud speakers as we waited our turn to disembark.
“Beware of moose, especially early in the morning.”
We headed in the direction of Gros Morne National Park, resolved to view its legendary fjords in person. We passed by countless trees, all of them evergreen and stunted by the severe weather conditions and poor soil of their environment. Every time we drove around a curve in the road, I expected to see a moose standing right over the yellow line, daring us to challenge its piece of the pavement. With each sign we passed, my apprehension grew until I convinced myself we were bound to hit a moose sooner or later. You didn’t win with a moose. I’d heard the stories. Something about slicing off the top half of a car.
No sleep for almost twenty four hours.
This was supposed to be our vacation, and I wasn’t feeling the least bit rested or relaxed. In spite of everything, I drove on through the rain, past the moose warning signs, past the stunted trees until we reached Rocky Harbour.
We stopped in front a two storey building formed out of logs. I watched the wipers moving back and forth, banishing the rain drops from the windshield. Absorbing the underlying gloominess in the pea soup of fog swirling around in the air, I sensed the moodiness of nature flourishing outside the boundaries of our car. I tasted sleep on my tongue and imagined a dry cotton pillowcase touching the bare skin of my cheek.
My daughter flipped the sun visor down and stared at her reflection in the photo-sized mirror. “Look at my hair. Look at all the little frizzy things on top.”
“It’s the humidity.”
“Do you think we’ll find a place to stay?”
“Let’s hope so. I’m tired of driving. Do you think whales get tired of swimming?”
Not too many places to choose from and none of them had vacancies. We’d already travelled through four states and three provinces. I’d been beaten this time. I didn’t believe in planning ahead. My daughter and I had always packed up the car, filled up the gas tank, bought a few maps, picked a spot and took off on our adventures. Every other trip, we’d lucked out with the weather, finding a place to stay and picking worthwhile places to visit.
Too tired to fight for my dream and concerned about how many days we had left to get back to Ontario, we drove back to Port-aux-Basques to spend the night and wait for the ferry to take us back to Nova Scotia.
We booked a room at the first motel we walked into, thankful they had something available. First, we ate a quick dinner, then more or less passed out from exhaustion and slept through the night. It’s kind of a blur as to what we had for dinner or what we had for breakfast the next morning.
While waiting for the ferry, we drove around the town, trying to find an access to the shoreline. I was surprised to see so many roses planted in front of the houses. White and magenta flowers covered the shrubs, brightening the overall dinginess like a single-budded corsage on the lapel of a dark grey suit.
After venturing down a few dead-ends, we found a flat patch of gravel at the end of a road, parked the car, switched out of our regular walking shoes into our rubber boots and hiked down to the water. I couldn’t tell you how to get back there. It had to be one of those mystical places that comes and goes with the tide.
We tip-toed across a juicy green carpet, interspersed with yellow irises and violet-pink flowers growing on vines with leaves shaped like sweet peas. The air smelled cleaner than new-cut pine trees and freshly grated lemon peel. Patches of rust-coloured grasses surrounded circles of ferns with thick glossy leaves. The outcrops of weathered rock were partially covered by low-growing evergreens reaching from the ground up, like the fingers of a rock climber searching for a handhold.
I stood on a hill and watched Sarah make her way down to the water, a navy dot with legs and blond hair, moving forward through a field of bronze, verdigris and a thousand shades of grey.
Listening to the waves hitting the rocks, I turned to face the wind coming in from the open water. The overcast sky met with the pale ocean, forming a faded line of periwinkle along the horizon. No barking dogs, no sounds of cars or kids yelling at each other. Not even seagulls.
Sarah drew closer to the water, exclaiming with enthusiasm each time she found something. The waves moved in and out, flinging something against a boulder. Sarah jumped down from a higher rock and bent over to save the tidal victims from the next assault of water.
Waving her arms in the air, she shouted, “I found a crab. He’s missing a claw.” She crouched down next to the closest tidal pool and lowered her hand into the water, straightened up and waved at me again. “Come over here and take a picture.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” I answered.
I aimed the camera down into another tidal pool formed of rocks resembling a watercolour painting, the water so clear, the images retained their clarity through to the bottom of the pool. I turned to face Sarah and saw some kind of rusted black metal frame discarded on a higher level of rocks. The disrespectful piece of flotsam nudged me back to reality for two seconds. I shrugged it off, deciding to ignore the prick of disappointment.
Climbing over rocks, I stopped to look into other tidal pools along the way. I followed a small inlet running within a two-foot wide crevice with four-foot high walls. I’d found a fjord after all. It lead me back to Sarah.
She pulled the damaged crustacean out of the water and placed it on a boulder. The washed-out vermilion armour covering its back legs blended in with the multi-coloured veins running through the rock. The crab held its claw up in the air, posing for the camera.
“Do you think he’ll die with only one claw?” Sarah asked.
“Maybe he’ll grow a new one,” I answered, focusing the lens on the creature and pushing the button.
“I hope so.” Sarah picked it up again when the foaming water threatened to pull the creature back to the ocean. “Ouch. That stupid thing bit me.” She dropped it in the tidal pool to investigate one of her fingers. She stretched her arm out towards me and said, “Look what it did to me, even after I tried to save its life.”
“Probably thought you were more dangerous than the waves.”
I moved away, intent on something else spread out on another section of rock. Small, round, hollow white spheres, marked with evenly spaced raised dots littered the rough surface.
Sarah held one in her hand. “What are these?”
“I think they’re sea urchins,” I answered.
The broken pieces of at least a hundred urchins covered the dark boulders, white and weightless, like dozens of shattered eggshells.
Comfortable enough in her new surroundings, Sarah bounded over the rocks to stand beside me. She had wrapped her navy sweat shirt around her waist, warmed up by the exercise of our expedition. With the recent exposure to the sun, the freckles across her nose and upper cheeks had gained prominence over her fair complexion.
We explored the shoreline for two hours, the disillusionment of the fjord-finding mission dissolving a little more each time I studied a different tidal pool. I looked back over my shoulder, towards the mountains and imagined myself traversing the moors of an undiscovered country. The fjords would have to wait for another time, another trip, one that would have to be planned out and prepared for.
Treasure Hunting in Tidal Pools
A Visit to the Pet Supply Store
An Educational Trip to Toronto
Beachcombing in Bayfield
Engaging With the Flora and Fauna
Iguana Sighting in the Wild
Although we were so close to our intended destination, I wasn’t in very good shape to deal with anything stressful. My reflexes were likely to respond with the same speed as a cat that had been laying outstretched in a sun puddle for the past couple of hours. I hadn’t slept much the night we boarded the ferry leaving New Sydney. My daughter Sarah, had walked the decks, unable to sit still while trying to cope with motion sickness. I settled down into a chair in one of the darkened rooms, only to be awakened by someone snoring louder than a fog horn. How can anyone feel so at home in a room filled with strangers?
I picked up my stuff and wandered around until I found a quiet spot next to a food and beverage bar. I slumped back in the chair for a few minutes, my legs extended out in front of me, trying to relax and whispering answers to Sarah whenever she walked by and asked me a question.
I finally closed my eyes for about twenty minutes before the dogs started barking. Yep, that’s right. Dogs on a boat. Young and old, big and small, judging by the tones and patterns of their varied woofing fits.
When we saw Newfoundland for the first time, it was 6:30 in the morning. We drove down the ramp, leaving the ship and docks behind to pass by a solitary cemetery situated on a hillside, dotted with white crosses and bleached headstones. I thought it looked just like those graveyards I’ve seen in movies filmed in countries where the land only knew how to grow rocks.
The sun played hide and seek along the horizon as a shape-changing mist settled down around the base of the nearest mountain range. In that isolated twilight, we looked out at the wilderness in black and white, the outline of the landscape formed out of the contrast of light and dark.
“I feel like I’ve come home.” Sarah uttered the words as they formed in my own mind.
We saw our first moose warning sign on the outskirts of Port-aux-Basques, reminding us of the message that blared throughout the ship on the loud speakers as we waited our turn to disembark.
“Beware of moose, especially early in the morning.”
We headed in the direction of Gros Morne National Park, resolved to view its legendary fjords in person. We passed by countless trees, all of them evergreen and stunted by the severe weather conditions and poor soil of their environment. Every time we drove around a curve in the road, I expected to see a moose standing right over the yellow line, daring us to challenge its piece of the pavement. With each sign we passed, my apprehension grew until I convinced myself we were bound to hit a moose sooner or later. You didn’t win with a moose. I’d heard the stories. Something about slicing off the top half of a car.
No sleep for almost twenty four hours.
This was supposed to be our vacation, and I wasn’t feeling the least bit rested or relaxed. In spite of everything, I drove on through the rain, past the moose warning signs, past the stunted trees until we reached Rocky Harbour.
We stopped in front a two storey building formed out of logs. I watched the wipers moving back and forth, banishing the rain drops from the windshield. Absorbing the underlying gloominess in the pea soup of fog swirling around in the air, I sensed the moodiness of nature flourishing outside the boundaries of our car. I tasted sleep on my tongue and imagined a dry cotton pillowcase touching the bare skin of my cheek.
My daughter flipped the sun visor down and stared at her reflection in the photo-sized mirror. “Look at my hair. Look at all the little frizzy things on top.”
“It’s the humidity.”
“Do you think we’ll find a place to stay?”
“Let’s hope so. I’m tired of driving. Do you think whales get tired of swimming?”
Not too many places to choose from and none of them had vacancies. We’d already travelled through four states and three provinces. I’d been beaten this time. I didn’t believe in planning ahead. My daughter and I had always packed up the car, filled up the gas tank, bought a few maps, picked a spot and took off on our adventures. Every other trip, we’d lucked out with the weather, finding a place to stay and picking worthwhile places to visit.
Too tired to fight for my dream and concerned about how many days we had left to get back to Ontario, we drove back to Port-aux-Basques to spend the night and wait for the ferry to take us back to Nova Scotia.
We booked a room at the first motel we walked into, thankful they had something available. First, we ate a quick dinner, then more or less passed out from exhaustion and slept through the night. It’s kind of a blur as to what we had for dinner or what we had for breakfast the next morning.
While waiting for the ferry, we drove around the town, trying to find an access to the shoreline. I was surprised to see so many roses planted in front of the houses. White and magenta flowers covered the shrubs, brightening the overall dinginess like a single-budded corsage on the lapel of a dark grey suit.
After venturing down a few dead-ends, we found a flat patch of gravel at the end of a road, parked the car, switched out of our regular walking shoes into our rubber boots and hiked down to the water. I couldn’t tell you how to get back there. It had to be one of those mystical places that comes and goes with the tide.
We tip-toed across a juicy green carpet, interspersed with yellow irises and violet-pink flowers growing on vines with leaves shaped like sweet peas. The air smelled cleaner than new-cut pine trees and freshly grated lemon peel. Patches of rust-coloured grasses surrounded circles of ferns with thick glossy leaves. The outcrops of weathered rock were partially covered by low-growing evergreens reaching from the ground up, like the fingers of a rock climber searching for a handhold.
I stood on a hill and watched Sarah make her way down to the water, a navy dot with legs and blond hair, moving forward through a field of bronze, verdigris and a thousand shades of grey.
Listening to the waves hitting the rocks, I turned to face the wind coming in from the open water. The overcast sky met with the pale ocean, forming a faded line of periwinkle along the horizon. No barking dogs, no sounds of cars or kids yelling at each other. Not even seagulls.
Sarah drew closer to the water, exclaiming with enthusiasm each time she found something. The waves moved in and out, flinging something against a boulder. Sarah jumped down from a higher rock and bent over to save the tidal victims from the next assault of water.
Waving her arms in the air, she shouted, “I found a crab. He’s missing a claw.” She crouched down next to the closest tidal pool and lowered her hand into the water, straightened up and waved at me again. “Come over here and take a picture.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” I answered.
I aimed the camera down into another tidal pool formed of rocks resembling a watercolour painting, the water so clear, the images retained their clarity through to the bottom of the pool. I turned to face Sarah and saw some kind of rusted black metal frame discarded on a higher level of rocks. The disrespectful piece of flotsam nudged me back to reality for two seconds. I shrugged it off, deciding to ignore the prick of disappointment.
Climbing over rocks, I stopped to look into other tidal pools along the way. I followed a small inlet running within a two-foot wide crevice with four-foot high walls. I’d found a fjord after all. It lead me back to Sarah.
She pulled the damaged crustacean out of the water and placed it on a boulder. The washed-out vermilion armour covering its back legs blended in with the multi-coloured veins running through the rock. The crab held its claw up in the air, posing for the camera.
“Do you think he’ll die with only one claw?” Sarah asked.
“Maybe he’ll grow a new one,” I answered, focusing the lens on the creature and pushing the button.
“I hope so.” Sarah picked it up again when the foaming water threatened to pull the creature back to the ocean. “Ouch. That stupid thing bit me.” She dropped it in the tidal pool to investigate one of her fingers. She stretched her arm out towards me and said, “Look what it did to me, even after I tried to save its life.”
“Probably thought you were more dangerous than the waves.”
I moved away, intent on something else spread out on another section of rock. Small, round, hollow white spheres, marked with evenly spaced raised dots littered the rough surface.
Sarah held one in her hand. “What are these?”
“I think they’re sea urchins,” I answered.
The broken pieces of at least a hundred urchins covered the dark boulders, white and weightless, like dozens of shattered eggshells.
Comfortable enough in her new surroundings, Sarah bounded over the rocks to stand beside me. She had wrapped her navy sweat shirt around her waist, warmed up by the exercise of our expedition. With the recent exposure to the sun, the freckles across her nose and upper cheeks had gained prominence over her fair complexion.
We explored the shoreline for two hours, the disillusionment of the fjord-finding mission dissolving a little more each time I studied a different tidal pool. I looked back over my shoulder, towards the mountains and imagined myself traversing the moors of an undiscovered country. The fjords would have to wait for another time, another trip, one that would have to be planned out and prepared for.
Treasure Hunting in Tidal Pools
A Visit to the Pet Supply Store
An Educational Trip to Toronto
Beachcombing in Bayfield
Engaging With the Flora and Fauna
Iguana Sighting in the Wild